Orgrimmar's words fell into the silent canyon.
It was like dropping a boulder into a deep pool.
But what his actions stirred up was not a splash, only a heavy silence.
Within the Black-Winged Tyrant's draconic eyes, two burning dark-gold suns remained fixed on the green dragon below.
Deep in her pupils was the reflection of his expression, so calm it bordered on indifference.
Adax Great City—this condition carried more weight than the first two combined.
Attacking it meant more than attacking a city. It meant challenging a formidable shield guarding the eastern Avalon Kingdom.
It also meant that, from this point onward, the Tranquil Forest would have no retreat.
Not until one side achieved total victory, or both met their destruction.
The shift in the conversation made the chill in the air even sharper.
Frost formed on the ground with faint cracking sounds, spreading several feet farther outward.
Even the Dragonkin warriors kneeling on the ground held their breath.
They could sense their dragon lord's suppressed emotions and careful deliberation.
Orgrimmar stood where he was, his dark-green robe remaining perfectly still amid the increasingly turbulent currents of Dragon Might.
Only his fingertips moved within his sleeve, gently rubbing the scorched black scale.
He kept feeling the lingering warmth of that escape more than two hundred years ago.
"A bridgehead?"
The Black-Winged Tyrant finally spoke, breaking the deathly silence, but her words betrayed neither anger nor pleasure.
At first, her voice seemed to carry nothing but the rasp of metal scraping metal.
"You certainly know how to choose your position."
"Once Adax falls, Avalon's eastern defensive line will be like a hide with a gash torn through it. My army can march straight in from Hanlubu Forest."
"And your Tranquil Forest can use the Great City as a foothold to